The Way We Touch: or Wrangling the Wide Receiver (The Bradford Boys)

The intensity of the games grows fiercer the closer we get to the playoffs. We haven’t had a loss this season, which means we’re a shoo-in for the Big Game. Still, competition is high, and it’s evident the other teams are studying Garrett and me. Last week’s tackle has us on alert.

Today’s game is against the Challengers, Ricky’s team, and he’s giving me death glares from across the field. We’re both putting our best running games forward, and on both sides, the defensive line is a wall.

My muscles tweak with energy, and when I look up at our box, my adrenaline spikes even higher. Dylan waves, and I can see her big smile. She holds up her hand, making our little I love you signal, and it’s better than I thought it would be to have her here.

I confess, it makes me want to show off a little.

Yesterday, we had Thanksgiving dinner in bed. I haven’t really wanted to venture out on the streets with her, not since that fucking article was printed. I don’t like people saying bad things about her simply because she’s with me, and that’s all it is. She’d be anonymous otherwise, and I don’t want her to decide being with me is too difficult.

Still, we went for a walk in Central Park with Garrett later in the day. He wanted to see his little sister, hug her, and tell her Lainey’s a double-crossing jerk he couldn’t believe he thought was cool.

Dylan was graceful, as always. Told him not to worry about it, said she was glad to see him, she missed him.

It was gray and breezy, and the few people who were there gave us space. In the past it was easy for me to move around the city unnoticed, but since I’ve been breaking and setting records, everything has changed.

It’s probably why I got sloppy, and she got hurt.

It won’t happen again.

Jogging onto the field, Garret bumps my shoulder pad. “Keep your head in the game.”

It’s a rough order, but he’s right. Having Dylan here is great, but the Challengers aren’t fucking around. They’re thinking about the Big Game as well, and I’m sure we’ll see these guys a few more times this season, vying for the championship ring.

We don’t make much progress on our first possession. Johnson is sacked, and Garrett has a penalty that sends us back five yards. We leave the field looking like amateurs.

“We gotta do better than that if we’re going to win.” Charlie pulls us all together, and calls out a new play we’ve been working on this week.

He gives me the signal, and I know he’s going to have his eye out for me next possession.

The only problem is I can’t get open. Garrett is held back, and I’m off my feet before Charlie even has a chance to pass. He’s forced to run, and we lose more yardage.

It’s pretty much the same every time we get the ball. The only saving grace is our defense is holding back the Challengers just as well.

Coach hands us our asses at halftime, but it doesn’t do much to improve our game. Our tight end runs the ball in for a score, and the kicker gets the extra point. We get a field goal in the third quarter, but in the final minutes, we’re still 10-13, with the Challengers leading by three.

Every time I look at the box, Dylan has her hands clasped in front of her mouth, and she and Maddy are on their feet, glued side by side in the window. Seeing her there is everything. It’s more than any trophy, more than all the cheers when we score. I’ll win this one for her.

It’s the final play of the game, and I glance up at her one more time. She holds up her fingers, and I give her a nod. We break the huddle and Garrett leans in as we hustle down to the lineup.

“They’re putting a lot of pressure on me, but I’ve found my guy’s weakness. Keep your eyes open.” I nod, and we take our positions.

The guys chatter in the line, but I hear Garrett’s growl above them all. “Let’s do this!”

My entire body is tense, and at the snap, I keep my eyes on my friend. Garrett barrels forward with a loud yell, and sure enough, he breaks through. He takes down a guy two inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier than he is.

As soon as I see the opening, I dig in and zip through it at top speed. I’m flying to the red zone. The field is clear ahead of me, and I turn to look back at Johnson. He’s waiting, watching, and our eyes lock when he sees I’m open.

Whipping back his arm, he fires the ball to me, and I dig in harder. Intuitively, I calculate the speed of the pass and where I need to be to complete it. It’s a perfect spiral, and this is it. I’m right where I need to be.

A flush of satisfaction unfurls in my chest. Not only are we going to win this game, it’s going to be a career-making play for me.

This one will be on instant replay all week long, and it’s going to be so sweet.

I’m at the height of my career. I’ve got my girl, she’s here with me. I’ve made it to the top of the mountain. Everything I want is in my hands. The ball arcs down, flying straight to me as if guided by a string. Reaching up, it’s mine.

Just as I catch it, as it lands in my fingers, I lift my eyes to see Dylan’s face. Her hands are fisted, and she holds them to her cheeks as if she’ll hide. It makes me smile. No fear, baby, I’m winning this.

My feet touch the ground. All that’s left is to run it in for the score, when BAM!

I spin around and everything goes dark.

Voices drift through the haze. They’re speaking low and urgent, and I try to understand what they’re saying as I open my eyes. The white room blinds me initially. I’m in a hospital bed, and I’m surrounded by softly beeping monitors.

My first instinct is to sit up, but as soon as I try, large hands grip my shoulders, forcing me down again.

“Hold it right there, Murph,” a deep male voice scolds, and I squeeze my eyes as I try to focus, to see what’s happening. “Glad to see you’re back with us.”

I’m so weak. I try to move again, but when I look down, a flash of dread hits my stomach. My leg is wrapped around a brace, and I can’t bend my knee.

“What happened?” My throat is scratchy, and now the large, dark hand holds a straw to my lips.

My nurse places his other hand on my shoulder to help me lean forward. “It was fucked-up, man. That corner is out for the season, and looks like…”

He stops abruptly, but I know what he was going to say. I know what a knee injury means.

“Looks like I am, too.” An ache moves through my chest.

It’s over.

His lips press into a grim line. “Let me get your people in here. They’ve been waiting to see you.”

He goes to the door, and I lean back in the bed, driving my fingers into my hair. Sickness is in my stomach, and when I breathe, my lungs feel like they’re lined with tiny shards of glass.

“Logan?” Dylan’s soft voice fills the room, and I do my best to sit up again. “You’re awake.”

“Hey.” It’s a weak greeting, but seeing her eases the pain a little.

“Wait, let me help you.” She takes the control from beside the bed and presses the button, raising the back to a sitting position. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” I’m sitting up now, and I can see the swelling around my knee. “I don’t remember what happened.”

She slides her fingers through mine. “It was awful, a hip-drop tackle. You suffered a mild concussion, and your knee…”

Her voice fades, and my lips tighten.

I swallow the shout bubbling in my chest, clenching my teeth instead. “Hip-drops are illegal.”

She nods, her eyes fixed on my hand. “Garrett got into a fight on the field. Ripped off the other guy’s helmet and started punching. It was chaos.”

Thinking of my oversized friend doing his best to beat up the asshole makes me feel slightly better. Until my doctor enters, with a tight expression on his face. He’s an older man in traditional scrubs, and I wait as he clips X-rays to a screen.

“The good news is, you’ll be off crutches in a week to ten days, but here’s the problem…”

He circles my knee with his pen and goes on to describe the injury and what it needs to heal, finishing up by essentially saying if I follow his orders, I’m looking at a full recovery—but this season is done.

“You’ll be able to walk and live your life normally. You just can’t run fifty yards or fly through the air or zig-zag out of the way of a defensive tackle…”

“Or basically do anything related to my job.” My tone is bitter.

He exhales a chuckle and stands. “Only for six to twelve weeks. The physical therapist will decide when you’re ready. You’re very lucky.”

He leaves the room without saying the silent part out loud. It’s over. My record, the trophy, everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve, all ended in one illegal play.

“I could kill that guy.” I exhale heavily.

Dylan’s fingers tighten around mine, and she nods. “I’m pretty sure that’s how everyone feels right now. Even Ricky.”

“Ricky?” My eyes snap to hers.

“He’s out in the waiting room. He wanted to talk to you when you woke up. He’s really pissed. Not as pissed as Garrett, but close.”

I press my head against the bed as sickness spreads through my stomach. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to be in this hospital room. I want to be as far away from all of this as possible, then I want to throw things and break things and roar.

Clearing my throat, my eyes are fixed on my leg. “How long do I have to stay here?”

“Just a day or two.” She strokes my hand, and I watch her slim fingers sliding up and down mine.

The sound of the monitors is around us, and I can’t think of a thing to say.

A light tap on the door and Ricky steps inside the room. He’s in jeans and a thin, long-sleeved sweater, and he looks like he spent the night here.

“Logan…” He doesn’t approach my bedside, but I can tell he’s agitated. “I won’t stay. I just needed to say something in person. We’re all sorry about what happened. Peter is trying to say he did it for me, but that’s bullshit. I’m pushing to have his contract terminated. I don’t even want to be on the same team as that guy.”

Peter Krall. Now I’m even more angry. That asshole’s got a reputation for targeting runners. I’m not his first illegal tackle, and I hope he is kicked out of the league.

“Thanks, Ricky.” I attempt a smile, but it’s more of a grimace.

“I wanted you to know just in case you saw any lies in the gossip feeds.”

I glance at my girl by my side, her fingers threaded in mine, silently holding me together. “I’ve seen a lot of lies on the gossip feeds.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he stands taller. “Well, I wanted to beat you fair and square. I didn’t want to win the trophy this way, by forfeit.”

“You haven’t won anything yet.” Garrett’s tone is pissed as he walks through the door, coming straight to my side. “How’s it going, bro? You’re pretty swole up, but you’ll heal. No worries. We’ll get you back out there.”

I expect nothing less from my best friend, but I can’t tell him how I really feel. I’m not even sure yet, so I only shake my head. One thing I do know, I never expected to see my biggest rival so wound up in my defense.

Ricky exhales a noise, holding up his hands. “That’s all I wanted to say. There’s always next year.”

The words hit me like a punch in the chest. I press my head against the stiff pillow behind me again, squeezing my eyes shut. Next year wasn’t the plan.

“May I speak to my son, please?” The polished voice draws all our attention to where my father has replaced Ricky at my door.

He’s wearing a suit, as always. One hand is in his pocket. The other is on his stomach. Dylan stands immediately, but my hand tightens around hers.

“Wait.” It’s a quiet order.

“Oh, yeah,” Garret’s voice is mildly sarcastic. “Your dad’s here to see you.”

I look up at my friend, and he shrugs.

“If you wouldn’t mind.” My father’s eyes narrow. “I’d like to talk to Logan alone.”

Dylan leans closer, pressing her soft lips to my brow. “It’s okay. I’ll be right outside.”

Garrett follows her, and soon I’m in a room facing the death of my proudest season with the man who never believed in me in the first place.

Anger is hot in my blood, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. I don’t want to come across as a sullen child.

“You had a good run this year.” My father’s eyes are on the monitor instead of me. “I’ve been very proud of you. I’m not sure I’ve ever told you that.”

“You haven’t.”

He nods. “Well, I’m telling you now.”

The words don’t give me the satisfaction I once thought they would. I don’t even care to acknowledge them.

“Did someone call you?”

His eyes finally meet mine, and impatience permeates his tone. “I don’t have to be called to be concerned about my son.”

I shift uncomfortably, wishing I wasn’t trapped in this bed. “That’s new.”

“Dammit, Logan. I saw you lying on that field not moving, and I worried you might not get up. I wanted to be here if you needed anything.”

“You could’ve saved yourself the trip. I don’t need anything.”

Not from him, at least.

“I’m glad.” Clearing his throat, he walks over to the rolling stand that holds my water cup. “I was thinking on the flight here, you might want to come home while you recover. You could work in the office. I’d always hoped you might take over for me one day.”

He attempts a smile, but I don’t know how else to make it clear I don’t want that.

“Thanks, but I’ll probably just stay here.”

“Who’ll look after you?” He glances at the door. “That little girl?”

“Her name is Dylan.” I level him with a glare.

“I saw the article about her, and I can’t say it portrays your relationship in a very flattering light.”

“Dylan is an amazing person. She’s strong, and she’s very special to me. That article was a disgusting work of fiction.”

He holds up both hands. “I was simply saying⁠—”

“Look, I appreciate you coming here, but I’m not going back to Houston. Once I speak to my doctor and my coaches, I’ll have a better idea of what I’ll be doing, but it won’t be that.”

Silence fills the room. It’s a heavy silence that presses on my temples, and makes me tired. I want the people I care about with me now, not this man who has only ever seen me as an asset or worse, nothing at all.

As if reading my mind, he turns his back, putting his hands on his hips. “We never had that kind of storybook, father-son relationship. I tried, but⁠—”

“No, you didn’t.” The words escape on a bitter laugh, and I regret them almost at once. Even if they’re true.

“It wasn’t easy. You were so much like your mother as a boy, it was difficult even to look at you in those days. Now… it seems you’re a lot like me.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

Something like regret tightens his features. “No, you’re not. You’re better.”

I don’t answer. There was a time when I would’ve sincerely appreciated him saying these words. As it is now, with everything coming down on me like it is, he needs to read the room.

Walking to the door, he stops before exiting. “Take care, son.”